


Wisest of Walls

by AlphaStarr



Series: Trope Bingo Round 7 [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Adoption, Community: trope_bingo, Domestic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M, Post-Awakening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 14:50:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8331913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaStarr/pseuds/AlphaStarr
Summary: Libra adopts over forty children in his lifetime. Be it far from Lon'qu to complain.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Trope Bingo Round 7, "Hurt/Comfort" and "Kid Fic." 
> 
> Vaguely and very loosely connected to [one of my previous fics,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7642651) but only insofar as Libra inheriting his cloister's otherwise empty abbey.

When at last the war was through, when at last the world had come out of Grima's shadow-- then and only then could Ylisse truly begin to heal. And in those months, Libra loaned his axe to felling trees instead of foes, and his hammer to crushing stone in lieu of bones, and his husband to carrying those supplies into the city, so as to assist in reconstruction. Those weapons, then, held a new meaning in peace, and Libra thought: _these were their true purposes_.

Thus, when construction finished, when Robin re-emerged from the darkness whence they'd vanished, Ylisse came anew into its glory-- and Libra, with relief in his heart, hung up his war-axe for good and settled with Lon'qu in the quiet of an empty abbey.

"It's... a large place," Lon'qu said, then, quietly sweeping the floors. Unspoken, the question of Libra's comfort.

"It was built to house two dozen... I suppose it would seem very large for two," Libra replied, soft. "Let me get another broom to help you."

Lon'qu did not press further, but merely nodded and returned to sweeping. An inch of dust had settled in the months Libra had been away. He could not help but think: _Sister Yves would have thrown a fit about it... had she still lived_.

They were better off than some, Libra knew-- the abbey still received the stipend it had under Emmeryn's rule, and Lon'qu always managed to find mercenary work, even in these days of peace.  But the abbey was indeed a lonely place, and though Ylisse's faith in its Exalted had more than tripled in the years since the Plegian War, the clergy gained very few new members. Oftentimes their only company came in the form of pilgrims who made the journey to Ylisstol to celebrate some holiday, or perhaps, at times, a visiting friend.

Guilt settled in Libra's stomach in those months, recalling that his husband once had an established life in Ferox, that he once fought among a hundred brothers-in-arms under the tutelage of Khan Basilio himself. A lifestyle that Lon'qu had uprooted in favor of joining Libra where he lived. For what reason, Libra did not know. There was little that held them to Ylisse-- merely an empty building, which could easily enough be donated or sold.

But when Libra spoke of this one night as they prepared to sleep, Lon'qu replied, "When the war finished... Khan Basilio indulged me in my request to spar with him."

"You have yet to say who was the victor of that match," Libra answered-- less inquisitive than a question, but more encouraging than a statement of fact.

Lon'qu paused. Then, "Not yet. But soon. All that matters is that I learned from it... and I must learn more still."

"There is no shame in defeat," Libra gently touched upon his husband's shoulder. "There would be no shame for _either_ of you."

"I know," he acquiesced, and mirrored the action. "But here... I have more to learn."

Libra did not ask what he sought to know. Only whispered: "The walls of this place seem wise, to me."

Lon'qu glanced about for a moment, and agreed-- "They know what it's like... to be home."

"How apt," Libra chuckled, and with affection, kissed him.

And that night, in the first home Libra had ever known, Lon'qu learned what it was like to truly, in his heart, settle down.

* * *

The orphanage happened completely on accident.

If someone were to ask Libra when it began-- and many had, indeed-- he could have offered any number of occasions.

"On a rainy night, a few among the children of Ylisstol's streets sought shelter at the abbey, and I would not turn them away," he might have said. "We offered that they could stay at length, if they so wished, and word spread that we would offer a home to any child who needed one. We had spare, dry habits, and a warm hearth, that night-- but still, I am persuaded that it was the potato stew that convinced most of them to stay. He may not seem like the sort, but Lon'qu cooks quite well."

At other times, different tales may have come to mind first. Libra might have smiled, and said simply, "The abbey offered me shelter when I was myself a child of the streets. I wished to extend the same to others." He may have spoken of a mere babe that had been left upon their doorstep, as some were wont to do near churches. He may have mentioned it was a purpose that Naga had given that abbey. Each tale, indeed, was true.

But most oft, Libra would speak of an evening where Lon'qu had returned from purchasing groceries at the market, a routine errand for a Saturday afternoon. He'd been late in returning, Libra recalled, and his appearance upon arriving home had been a shock.

"You're bleeding!" Libra had cried, rushing for their supply of bandages. His hands shook, having long since thought Lon'qu beyond such injury.

"This is Doran," Lon'qu gestured to the young boy beside him, as if his wound were of no consequence. "He didn't hit anything vital. Can he stay for dinner?"

It was just like Lon'qu to neglect his own injuries, Libra thought, and even _more_ like him to give so incomplete an explanation.

"He can stay for dinner," Libra leveled, "If you can explain to me _how_ and _why_ you got this injury."

"The tale isn't mine to tell," Lon'qu answered, and flickered his gaze over to the boy.

The child, no older than ten years, stared resolutely at his bare, muddy feet.

"Ma and Pa been gone a long time. Six or seven moons, maybe," said Doran, doing his best to feign resolve. "But I gotta eat like everyone else, and raw p'tatoes don't taste so bad once you're used to 'em... and he was walkin' down this alley alone, so I thought I could take 'im."

"He has talent," Lon'qu grunted, wincing as Libra placed pressure on the wound. "Few can land a hit on me."

I've married a madman, Libra thought. A blessed, _blessed_ madman.

"I appreciate your honesty, at least," Libra sighed, at last tying the bandage. "You understand, Doran, that it isn't good to attempt to injure people? You could have very seriously hurt Lon'qu... and perhaps others, previously."

"I don't aim to kill," Doran offered. "Just... scare people enough to make 'em drop their bags and run for it."

"And if you had missed?" Libra's voice held a stern edge. "You could have killed someone, even mistakenly. I know I cannot ask you to do so... but I hope you will be more responsible with your blade in the future. Lon'qu, do you still have the weapon?"

"I gave it back to him," Lon'qu nodded in Doran's direction. "When I was... his age... my life and my sword were one and the same."

Libra softened at that, if but slightly. "Well, then, Doran, will you let me see the knife? You may keep it... but I must know if it is likely the wound is infected."

The child procured a surprisingly clean blade, if a dull one-- undoubtedly, the reason why the injury wasn't worse. He tucked it away, and added, "I wash it. Mister Lon'qu said it wasn't the worst thing he's ever been stabbed by."

Libra snorted in spite of himself. "That's a terrible comparison. _Mister Lon'qu_ has been stabbed by all manner of brigands, several Valmese dynast lords, and even, once, General Aversa of Plegia."

Doran gawped, briefly. When he was able to speak, "Boy, did I choose the wrong person today."

"Well... Naga's ways can be difficult to understand," Libra shook his head. "In any case... you are welcome to dinner at our home, both tonight and any other night you find your stomach empty. Lon'qu, how are you feeling? If you are tired or in pain, then I would gladly cook tonight instead."

"I've done mess duty with worse," Lon'qu answered, and ducked into the kitchen-- his grocery bags still intact.

"Come, then," Libra smiled, gentle now, at Doran. "We have water and soap enough for you to wash, and if you are in need of new clothes... there are plenty of clean habits, from when more people used to live here."

"Why didn't they stay?" Doran asked, as if he couldn't fathom possibly leaving so wonderful a place.

Libra paused. And, softly, "The other priests and clerics have been gone a long time. They've been gone many, many moons now. I know they would have stayed if they could, but I am afraid it was not meant to be. I am sure none of them will mind if you borrow a shirt or a robe... though I suppose we'll have to roll up the sleeves, won't we?"

"I guess so," replied the child. He started awkwardly, "And, uh... thanks for everything, ma'am."

Libra's next conversation with the child began with a cringe and, "Well... you would not be the first to make that assumption."

Within perhaps a month, Doran became a fixture of that abbey, and within a year, he became their first adopted son. In the years to come, children would flock to that abbey, whether they would choose to live there until they were grown, or whether they would stop by only a few times a week in search of food, or shelter, or medicine. There they would find welcome in its gates, bedraggled and worn too early in life, attempting to learn from its walls the wisdom of _home_.

The children loved Libra like a mother, so much so that he could not even be chagrined about it. How could he, when they sought out his care for cuts and scrapes, when they sought out his shoulder when they wished to cry, when they held poppets made by his hand, misshapen though they might be, and took comfort where there were once only nightmares?

And Lon'qu-- Lon'qu wore the mantle of parenthood so very well, indulging the boys in mock-battles and stifling his fear of girls so that they could dance on his feet. The children's roughhousing, he tolerated as stoically as ever-- and it was not strange a sight to Libra's eye to find four or five children hanging off of his husband at once, gripping his arms so as to be lifted, or sitting upon his feet to hinder his walk, or perhaps being carried piggyback-style. 

Their family had grown large, Libra thought, unexpectedly large. And in visits to town, where his multitudinous children would draw query, he would oft be asked to explain how he had begun the matter of caring for orphans. Each time, he answered.

None had ever asked Lon'qu, but if anyone had-- if they'd ever thought of asking the taciturn swordsman-- he would have answered, too.

Libra's replies, he thought, were all technically true. But in Lon'qu's opinion, the abbey's orphanage first began long before they'd even met. _What homeless child_ , he would have said, _does not dream of a place to call home?_

There was a time he voiced this thought aloud, late one evening as they curled up to sleep.

Libra had patted his cheek, then, soft. He whispered, "You are a wiser man than I am, Lon'qu."

"Not wisdom," Lon'qu replied, and turned to kiss Libra's palm. "Only... a hope of my childhood."

"Do you find those hopes fulfilled?" Libra asked, gently leaning in.

Lon'qu paused. He breathed, "It... is not the same. You know this."

"I do," Libra admitted, for what was lost was lost. "Still... it comforts me for our own children to have what we could not. A childhood that is not rife with hatred, fear, starvation..."

"Death," Lon'qu completed the grim thought, and shifted. Pulled Libra close, as if afraid he would vanish.

"No child should be subject to it," Libra agreed, and hugged back, recalling how very, very long it had taken for him to trust another person enough for them to even touch.

"It is enough," said Lon'qu, and swore he would protect each of his sons and daughters. "It... must be enough."

"It shall be," Libra kissed him, softly, and they fell asleep.

* * *

Someday in the years following, these children would too become grown. Libra's heart thought fondly on Harriet, who had left home at sixteen with an offer to be a gardener in the castle. Arthur, who was now a farrier's apprentice, and Marian, the newest of Pegasus Knight recruits under Captain Cordelia. Some of them remained home, Saria who had become a cleric, and Faun who wished to help her parents take care of their ever-increasing children.

Doran's intent had been to travel to West Ferox and become champion of its Khan. The first step on the road to being Lon'qu's equal, he thought, and set out. Within ten years, he had his chance of facing off against Reigning Khan Flavia's champion, and came closer to defeating Lord Chrom than any other before him.

"You never did tell me, Lon'qu," Libra said, that day.

"Tell you what?" Lon'qu grunted. He let a child down from her perch on his shoulders, and bade her congratulate her older brother.

Libra chuckled, "You never told me the result of the match between you and Basilio all those years ago..."

Lon'qu's eyes softened. "You know the result already. I never needed to tell you."

"I have a strong suspicion," Libra replied, and touched his husband's cheek. More quietly, "What matters most is that you were dissatisfied with it. There was something... something in the way you returned from it. I worried."

"I shouldn't have troubled you with my concerns," Lon'qu flushed, averted his eyes. "I was looking for something. I didn't find it, then."

"So you sought it in the abbey," Libra smiled, comforting. "Did you find it there?"

The walls of that home were indeed wise, but glancing out at this family,  _his_ family, Lon'qu knew where he had truly learned the most. The cluster of children--as young as five and as old as twenty-and-five-- they waved up at their parents in the stands. Lon'qu waved broadly back.

"I've found it," he confirmed, and ventured the smallest of smiles.


End file.
